They have watered the street,

It shines in the glare of lamps, 

Cold, white lamps, 

And lies

Like a slow-moving river,

Barred with silver and black.

Cabs go down it,

One,

And then another,

Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.

Tramps doze on the window-ledges,

Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.

The city is squalid and sinister,

With the silver-barred street in the midst,

Slow-moving,

A river leading nowhere.



Opposite my window,

The moon cuts,

Clear and round,

Through the plum-coloured night.

She cannot light the city:

It is too bright.

It has white lamps,

And glitters coldly.



I stand in the window and watch the

   moon.

She is thin and lustreless,

But I love her.

I know the moon, 

And this is an alien city.